


Horror vacui

by Lyrae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Brain Damage, Brain Damaged Jim, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Dammit Jim, Established Relationship, Fear of Death, Horror vacui, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jim Has Issues, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Palace, POV Jim Moriarty, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Thanatophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26485495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae/pseuds/Lyrae
Summary: Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, Jim sees nothing.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/James Moriarty, Mycroft Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Horror vacui

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "mind palace" on amino! I originally had two more ideas for this prompt so I might go back to them at some point

Sometimes, when Jim closes his eyes, he sees nothing. 

Of course, most people after hearing this would shake their heads and say that '𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵', so surely, there's no need to be worried about something as inane as that, but Jim had never been like most people. 

And even if he was, everyone sees 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 at least, even if they are in a pitch black room, phosphenes ranging from flashing lights to geometrical shapes, or even some figment of their imagination if they're particularly good at visualisation. 

Everyone sees something, yet when Jim closes his eyes, he is only met with complete emptiness, a colourless void stretching for infinity, and whatever he does, he can't leave that blankness, no amount of willing brings anything comforting, there's no light to see, no air to breath, no existence to live. 

It makes him want to scream. 

Sometimes he does, he doesn't let anyone see him but when it all becomes too much - too 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 - he screams, screams, 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴, until his throat is made raw by the abuse. 

It doesn't help, not really, it's not like he can even hear himself scream in the void, or feel the pain until he's back to reality for that matter, but it reminds him that he's still somewhat alive. 

He thinks so at least. 

He knows that his mind wasn't like that before, that there was something other than this emptiness, that there were actual 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 in his 'palace' before the incident happened, he knows it, but that doesn't mean he remembers something other than his name-

"James. "

𝘑𝘪𝘮, what's left of his thoughts immediately counters. 

James is what The Man calls him, the one with the cold, cold eyes and the frigid tone, the one who comes to see him nearly every-day, staying longer and longer each time. 

𝘐𝘤𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘯, something inside him whispers, but like always, it's gone before he can truly grasp the memories.

"Yes? "

The Man smiles, or his mouth does at least, and he sits in his usual chair, the one facing Jim. 

"How are you today? Do you remember anything? "

Jim tilts his head, stares, and stays silent. 

They both know this kind of small talk is useless, or at least he guessed it when he noticed the almost invisible cameras around his room, The Man knows he spent most of the day doodling with the pencils he has been provided, so why should he even answer? 

A sigh and another question. 

"Alright, what did you make then? "

The Man always asks what he's doing, always looks and always comments on anything he finds interesting or peculiar. 

There were nurses when he first woke up here, they thought he was crazy and that whatever he was doing what complete nonsense, but The Man 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴.

Jim doesn't say anything, he's not sure he would be able to explain it anyway, it made sense when he made it, it made 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 and he needed to get it 𝘰𝘶𝘵, but now his writing looks like some kind of incomprehensible gibberish. 

To everyone else at least. 

He can't explain it, but he 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, and even if it sometimes takes him a few minutes, The Man usually does too. 

Not this time. 

"What is this room supposed to be? " he asks, and Jim frowns. 

The nature of his drawings changes, sometimes he makes star charts, sometimes he draws faces, sometimes he recreates rooms like he just did now. 

Everytime, the paper is completely covered with pencil information, graphite data, not an inch of white is left in the end, simply because the emptiness is too reminiscent of the void. 

The Man doesn't understand that though, maybe because the only way to understand it is to live it, maybe because he doesn't even want to think about it, but he doesn't understand how it feels to be stuck in infinite nothing, and it shows. 

'𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦? '

Usually, Jim draws spaces he sees in dreams, in memories perhaps, and The Man is always able to tell just what he is trying to show, but things linked to the void in his mind, the void in itself and not whatever is sometimes drifting by, always seem to unsettle him somewhat. 

"It's… Home. "

The Man looks at the nebulas floating in the middle, between the hovering chair and the upside down bookshelves, looks at the messed up gravity and screwed proportions, before glancing back at him.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳, 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥. 

"James, was this what your mind previously looked like? " 

Jim freezes, staring at the drawing, staring, staring, 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Maybe if he hadn't been so focused on his own thoughts, he would have noticed the glimmer of hope in the other's eyes. 

\------------

Carl Powers dies, Sherlock Holmes gets interested and his brother follows the whole case from afar. 

Soon enough, he notices a young boy with wicked eyes and a sharp intellect, one who smiles with his angelic face before shaking the devil's hand, one who seemingly blends perfectly in the background as the smart, unproblematic student, one who somehow manages to fool everyone. 

Mycroft classifies the child somewhere in the back of his mind palace, behind a mahogany bookshelf and an ornate globe, before going back to his governmental files. 

\------------

It's years later that they meet again, James is consulting for a Scottish mob boss trying to sell some military plan he stole from some gouvernment or another, and Mycroft Holmes is on the opposite side, trying to suppress the leak and catch the thief. 

Somehow it ends in a diner and a deal. 

It's not the first time the consulting criminal offers his service to the English Crown after all, and even if Mycroft dislikes hiring freelancers, the man is just too good to let go. 

Neither is really planning on seeing the other in person again, but one thing leads to another, and it happens again… And again… And again. 

At some point, they stop pretending it's only for business. 

\-------------

Jim isn't exactly sure how it happens, but he ends up in some kind of relationship with Mycroft Holmes… 

He isn't even sure how to explain it himself, he doesn't actually qualify it with words, but it is here, and he doesn't want it to end anytime soon. 

Usually, they don't meet for a very long time, too much risk factors apparently, and neither of them want to put a target on their back, but they still do, and it's… 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦.

Jim would have never thought Mycroft Holmes would ever be an affectionate man, and really he wasn't, but even when he was overworked, he would always take some time to just sit with him and let the smaller lean against him. 

They are quiet, those afternoons they spend together, the time of heated discussions is long gone now, it's not like they don't disagree anymore, but they already know how the other thinks, so there is no need to argue uselessly. 

Sometimes they go to the opera, or they dine out, sometimes they merely watch the old black and white movies Mycroft favours with a glass of wine in hand, it's always nice and his mind palace is alight with the lights of the city and the warmth of a lit fireplace. 

Jim is happy, or at least he thinks so...

Then why does his hand hover over the trigger of the gun that way before hiding it away? 

\------------

He doesn't start having the thoughts at some particular point, as far as he knows, they were always there, lurking, hiding, kept behind that dark door in the back of his mind palace. 

As a child, he remembers being horrified by the thought of one day dying and disappearing into nothingness, of his life merely ending and of him being swallowed by 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

He remembers crying in his pillow for hours before falling asleep with puffy eyes, terrified death would somehow take him in his bed. 

He remembers somehow pushing back all of the horror in the back of his mind and closing that jet black door, protecting his mind from the dread. 

For years, he manages to avoid opening it again, he dives straight into mathematics and astrophysics, he learns the positions of the stars to convince himself the universe isn't empty, he builds himself a palace in his mind and fills it to the brim to distract himself from the emptiness hidden behind the bookshelf. 

Then Carl Powers holds his head underwater, laughs as he uselessly struggles, and it all comes rushing back, swallowing everything he had managed to piece together. 

This time, Jim doesn't cry though. 

The void fills his eyes, fills his heart, and soon he's sending Powers to the bottom of the pool. 

The door is closed again, his palace put back together, but fissures remain in the furniture, in the very walls of his mind. 

\-------------

In the end, Sherlock is a distraction. 

Mycroft might be one too, Jim considers that fact sometimes, but admitting it feels wrong, so he shoves the fact far away from his consciousness and moves on. 

Before meeting the detective, he would think about some mathematical formulas when his thoughts turned to the door in his mind palace, but with time, this technique slowly lost potency, and he had to look for other ways. 

Consulting worked well, it made his mind work and since no-one knew his true identity, he didn't have to face his own mortality… 

But even that lost its charm. 

Before meeting the detective, he had been slowly withering away, doing his best to avoid Mycroft's growing suspicions while piling objects upon objects in front of the door. 

Sherlock feels like taking a breath of fresh air for the first time in decades, feels like being born again and running in a field of vibrantly green grass… 

Yet at the same time, Jim feels himself brushing past the door, grazing, touching… 

Maybe the best way to put it would be to say that Sherlock makes him feel like flying and falling at the same time. 

_ Is it really bad to grow curious about the landing?  _

\-------------

Mycroft is worried, Jim knows it, he's calling right now and Stayin' Alive is echoing in the cold air of the rooftop, but Sherlock is here, with his dark locks and his sharp eyes, so Jim rejects the call. 

They turn around each other, they play, until Jim has one hand in Sherlock's and the other tightly grasping the door handle. 

"Well good luck with that. "

Jim smiles, pulls the trigger and lets the void swallow him whole. 

\-------------

Mycroft worries constantly. 

It's something that he knows perfectly well and more or less admits, he worries about England, about his brother, about 𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴.

His concern about the latter grows more and more important for years, for the eternity he spend analysing every single one of his words in his mind palace, yet now it reaches its climax. 

Sherlock and James are alone on that rooftop, his brother's reputation is in shambles, the other man hasn't talked to him in days and now he isn't answering his phone, Mycroft knows this is the final showdown and he made plans in advance, but he can't help but think this is going to go horribly wrong. 

He puts his phone on the table, his face between his hands, and he waits.

\-------------

James Moriarty, 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, the report Mycroft forged says. 

His James is deaddead𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 until somehow he isn't. 

'𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 ' the doctors say, shaking their head '𝘏𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. '

Mycroft doesn't care, he 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 care, simply because James has to survive, simply because he can't disappear like that, simply because he doesn't have the right to just kill himself and hop out of this life on his own. 

The body on the hospital bed looks like a corpse for months, thin and pale, then, one day, two dark eyes open and blink in confusion. 

He doesn't speak at first whether it's because he doesn't know what to say or his voice is just too hard to use after months of silence, he just stares at the ceiling, unmoving, unspeaking, and it gives the nurses the time to call Mycroft. 

The Prime Minister doesn't understand why his meeting is suddenly cancelled, but he doesn't need to know. 

"How do you feel James? Do you need anything? Some water maybe? "

𝘞𝘩𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘺-

Mycroft bites his tongue, doesn't ask, doesn't voice the burning question, he merely smiles, hiding the pain beneath layers of ice. 

The other man frowns, at the familiar tone, at the name, at the questions. 

"I'm sorry-" his voice is hoarse, so different from how it usually sounds- "But who are you?" yet at that precise instant, it is as clear as ever. 

\------------

James doesn't remember anything. 

Oh, he tries, Mycroft can't say the opposite, but the man sitting on the floor, holding his head in his hands, is just not the one he knew-

𝘖𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥... 

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦.

The criminal doesn't even remember his name, and Mycroft doesn't tell him, simply because he wants to know the other remembers the moment he speaks his name. 

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘵?

Sometimes, James draws. 

Mycroft doesn't pay it any mind at first, he listens to the nurses' reports but it is far too painful to be reminded about James' condition on a daily basis, so he just steps away, adds a file into the wing of his mind dedicated to the criminal and locks the door behind him. 

\------------

One nurse decides to leave one of the drawings in a written report once, and Mycroft freezes. 

He recognises those seemingly random lines of codes covering the entirety of the paper, the carefully etched symbols, the meaning behind them-

It's a summary of one of their common operations, the one involving Sherlock. 

𝘉𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘈𝘪𝘳.

\------------

After that, he starts visiting again.

At first it's merely to retrieve the daily drawings, he doesn't speak, doesn't look at the ghost of the man he once knew, but then he starts staying, longer and longer every time, falling into the lull of routine. 

Today, the paper is completely covered with small points with minuscule names written next to them without a single empty space, galaxies as they will appear in billions of years once the universe expands enough to cover the entire night sky. 

James beams once he realises that his intentions were understood, he beams and Mycroft almost physically recoils. 

This isn't a smirk, this isn't a flirty grin or even a victorious smile. 

This isn't 𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴.

Mycroft somehow convinces himself that he isn't running away, that he isn't making everything worse, that he shouldn't have let his James die. 

\------------

Mycroft looks at the nebulas floating in the middle, between the hovering chair and the upside down bookshelves, looks at the messed up gravity and screwed proportions, looks at the impossible room, before glancing at the other. 

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳, 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥. 

Maybe James is truly dead in the end. 

Maybe the man in front of him is just a pale reflection of the criminal. 

Maybe he never truly survived the rooftop. 

Of course, he used to draw scenes from the past, places that they had visited together, schemes they had made, but this? 

𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥. 

Mycroft still asks though, giving up hope is too hard to do, so he asks, and watches the other freezes. 

For an instant, for the blink of an eye, he looks at the man and he sees James Moriarty staring back at him. 

\------------

"𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦? " 

Jim sees a flurry of images, too many feelings coming up all at once and stifling his thoughts, for an instant he feels like 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, yet the next instant everything is gone and the only thing left is the void. 

"No. " he says, frowning in dismay "I don't think so, it just felt right at the moment I guess? " 

It's not the first time he thinks things are coming back, and it's not the first time it turns out to be nothing, yet the way his heart skips a bwat when he needs to admit to that never changes. 

The Man sighs, and no one would be able to tell whether the disappointment he's displaying is real or faked. 

"I see. Do you need anything else? Anything that might bring something back? "

A shaken head, a pause, closed eyes. 

"I'm sorry."

𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦.

And just like always, The Man merely smiles sadly, his hand hovering mere millimeters away from Jim's shoulder before falling away, leaving the fabric untouched. 

"It's alright James, it's alright. "

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵?

The darkness behind his eyelids is lit up by the words, the empty reassurance, then The Man looks away, stands up, and when he closes the door behind him, Jim is once more stranded in the abyss. 

And just like always, as soon as the other is gone he notices something drifting in the emptiness of his mind, he can see a gaping opening leading to impossible bookshelves and warm walls cast in city lights-

Then the door closes, Jim is seized by the void and he 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope it wasn't too weird! Tell me what you thought :)


End file.
